


Respect

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'What’d you call me?' Waya blurts, dragging his mouth away from Isumi’s skin so he can blink shocked adrenaline down at the other’s features." Waya finds out he has a particular appreciation for Isumi being respectful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respect

It’s Isumi who starts it.

Waya isn’t thinking about anything at all. It’s always hard to keep his head clear when he’s kissing Isumi, and it’s only gotten worse now that he has his own place and the associated assurance of privacy. With the knowledge that they can do whatever they want, as  _long_  as they want, his rationality vanishes completely, leaves him free to push Isumi down against the bed and kiss against his jaw, press his mouth to the soft spot just under his ear that always makes the other boy jerk and laugh startled delight.

“That  _tickles_ , senpai,” is what Isumi says, the words innocuous enough in meaning and soft in his gentle voice. But they go through Waya like fire, blazing all his limbs alight, and when he takes a breath it’s shocked and rushed out of all proportion to Isumi’s words.

“What’d you call me?” he blurts, dragging his mouth away from Isumi’s skin so he can blink shocked adrenaline down at the other’s features.

Isumi turns up to look at him, eyes wide and heat-hazed out of all focus. His gaze drops over Waya’s features, his forehead creases in confusion, and when he says, “Senpai?” he sounds confused and faintly concerned, as if he’s worried about Waya’s inability to comprehend basic language.

Waya has to shut his mouth on the whimper in his throat, the immediate reaction to the second flare of heat through him. He can see Isumi’s face start to relax in the first clarity of understanding, but before he can say anything Waya’s speaking over him, saying, “Say it again,” with absolutely no attempt to pull the growl of satisfaction out of his throat.

“Senpai,” Isumi says again, immediately responsive, and Waya whines, ducks his head to Isumi’s shoulder as his fingers tighten on the other’s hip. “Do you like it that much?”

Waya doesn’t answer. He’s occupied in kissing Isumi’s neck again, just along the soft ends of his hair and down against the curve of his throat into his loose t-shirt. His skin is tingling with adrenaline, like all his nerve endings have lit up to meet the soft respect in Isumi’s voice, and Isumi isn’t moving away, is turning his head in submission to Waya’s mouth and reaching up to fit his hands against the curve of the other boy’s back.

“This is exciting,” he says, voice starting to strain over what might be laughter. “I’ll have to be careful to not call you this in public.”

“Shut up,” Waya says against his shoulder. He can feel Isumi’s breathless laugh against his hair. “Shut up or I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” Isumi agrees, compliant as ever, and that strikes sparks off Waya too, leaves him breathless and trembling before they’ve even done anything. It’s to recover as much as anything else that he leans back, rocks his weight over his heels and shakes off Isumi’s hold at once, and while Isumi blinks up at him Waya tosses his head back and adopts the most self-assured tone he can manage.

“You’ll do whatever I say,” he says, trying to make it sound more like a demand than a question. He’s not sure he succeeds, but Isumi’s eyelids flutter, his eyes going darker as his chin tips down. “Right?”

There’s a pause, a breathless moment of tension winding up Waya’s spine into the shape of awkward self-consciousness; then Isumi’s tongue slips over his lips, a quick probably-unthought motion, and when he ducks his head it’s with a dip of his lashes like he’s sketching out a bow with just his expression.

“Of course, senpai,” and Waya should probably be embarrassed at how hot that burns through him but he’s too busy flaring alive from the inside out. He reaches out for Isumi’s shirt, shoves roughly at the edge of the fabric, and when he says, “Take this off,” it’s with Isumi’s obedience assumed underneath the words.

It’s a safe assumption. Isumi pushes up on an elbow as soon as Waya speaks, grabbing at the edge of his shirt and dragging it up while Waya tips his weight back so he can get his fingers around Isumi’s belt buckle. He might feel like he’s turning into an open flame but Isumi’s not calm either; Waya can feel him hard against the inside of his jeans as he gets the buckle open, shifts his hold to shove at the button and drag on the metal pull of the zipper. Isumi’s shirt moves in his peripheral vision, dark cloth fluttering to the floor, and when Waya looks back up Isumi’s falling back across the bed, the bare skin of his chest catching the light like it’s a beacon for Waya’s eyes.

“Fuck,” Waya blurts, and Isumi’s eyes flutter with the gentle criticism he would normally offer to this. But he doesn’t say anything, apparently still obeying Waya’s demand for silence, and that’s thrilling too, to have overturned the routine of their interactions with just one command. Waya hooks his fingers inside Isumi’s clothes, drags down in one hard motion, and Isumi arches up, his back curving into submissive obedience as his clothes come off. Waya wants to do everything to him, wants to press in against the gentle give of Isumi’s smile and fit himself between the easy angle of Isumi’s legs, but his clothes are still on and he doesn’t want to have to bother with getting them off later. He leans back instead of forward, drops to sit against the rumpled sheets over the bed, and when he ducks his head to fumble with his fly Isumi laughs and sits up.

“Here,” and there are fingers at Waya’s hips, dragging in to take the place of his own hands. “Let me.” Isumi’s close when Waya looks up, leaning in near enough that their hair is catching together, and he’s looking down, watching Waya’s mouth instead of his eyes. It’s too much temptation to resist, Waya can practically feel his limited patience giving way, and when he leans in to press his mouth to Isumi’s it’s worth it for the amused heat of the other’s laugh against his lips.

It’s quick, after that. Isumi’s fingers are remarkably dextrous, or maybe Waya is just distracted enough by the way Isumi’s hair fits against his hands that he doesn’t pay much attention to time passing. It doesn’t matter; either way it’s just a few moments before there are hands pushing against Waya’s hips, feathering sensation out across his stomach as Isumi trails his touch down past the waistband of his jeans, and that’s as much control as Waya is willing to give up. He pulls back, keeps his hold on Isumi’s hair as he goes, and when he blinks his vision clear Isumi’s eyes are still shut, his lips still half-parted on breathless appreciation. It makes Waya’s skin tingle, tightens his fingers into a fist, and when he says “Back,” it’s in that same unfamiliar tone of command that feels so hot on his tongue.

Isumi drops back to the bed, head tilting back to the pull of Waya’s hand without a flicker of hesitation. For a moment there’s the curve of his throat turned up in an offer, the clean line of collarbone shifting for Waya’s gaze; then he falls to the bed, and Waya lets his hand go, slides off the mattress entirely so he can push his jeans down and off his hips. His shirt has to go too, twists up over his head while he tries not to look at the way Isumi is watching him, tries not to think about the shadow of want clear in the other boy’s gaze. It works, for a minute, but he’s just tossing his shirt aside when Isumi takes a breath, and Waya knows what he’s going to say well before the pleading “Senpai” hits his ears.

“Shit,” he says this time, drops to a knee so he can fumble under the bed for the bottle he carelessly tossed aside the last time they were alone in his room. Isumi is laughing over his head, rolling sideways and reaching out to trail his fingers through Waya’s hair and along the back of his neck, and Waya would be irritated about being distracted except that Isumi’s fingers feel like condensing heat, electricity prickling into him every time they glance over bare skin.

“It would be easier if you kept your room cleaner,” Isumi points out just as Waya gets his fingers closed around the slick plastic of the bottle and sits back up with it in his hands. “You wouldn’t have to look for the lube every time.”

“Quiet,” Waya demands, climbs back onto the mattress while clinging to the attempt at a frown on his lips. “Is that any kind of way to talk to your senpai?” That makes Isumi laugh, the warm one that curls out over his face and catches the corners of his eyes, and Waya gets the bottle open to spill slick liquid across his fingers and palm. He uses more than he needs, the extra catching at his wrist and smearing against the plastic until it’s hard to steady it enough to get the lid shut.

“Sorry,” Isumi says, but he’s still smiling, his eyes soft as he blinks up at Waya kneeling over him. “It won’t happen again.”

“Yeah,” Waya says, reaches out to press his mostly-clean hand against Isumi’s leg. “It had better not.” He’s sapping the words of any force with the grin he can’t hold back, but it hardly matters; Isumi is smiling too, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back in expectation, and when Waya fits two fingers into him the sound he makes is a shaky sigh of relief more than a groan.

“I’ll take care of you,” Waya teases, his grin catching on the edge of a laugh as he eases his fingers deeper. Isumi’s tight around him, shockingly hot as he always is, and the adrenaline of expectation is flaring into his blood until it’s a struggle to keep his hands steady. “Isumi-chan.”  
“ _Isumi-chan_ ,” Isumi repeats back, laughter surging under the words. “Oh my god.”

“Do you not like it?” Waya’s grinning helplessly now, too close to dissolving into laughter to let himself stop talking. He draws his hand back, pushes in again in a slow slide, and Isumi’s amusement melts into a gasp, this time, his hips rocking up involuntarily like he’s asking for more. “What about Shin-chan, is that better?”

It’s hard even to say, the shape of Isumi’s first name still novel on Waya’s tongue even in its full form. But Isumi groans, low and aching like he’s pleading, and Waya doesn’t need to be told to know that’s agreement.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, draws his fingers back to leave Isumi shaky and breathless against the bed while he strokes over himself with a quick rush of slippery fingers. “Shin-chan it is.”

“God,” Isumi breathes, and he’s reaching up to catch his fingers at the back of Waya’s neck, to draw him down into a kiss while Waya braces himself on the bed and fits himself in between Isumi’s legs. “All this power is going to your head.”

Waya grins. “Maybe,” he admits, and when he rocks his weight forward Isumi angles up to meet him. They move slowly, Waya still a little afraid of hurting the other boy even after more than enough experience to the contrary, but Isumi makes a low anxious sound of appreciation rather than of pain, his back arches to press his skin in against Waya’s, and whatever thought Waya had of going slow fractures away in the space between two breaths. He thrusts in all at once, one slick gliding motion, and Isumi falls back to the bed, lets one of his hands fall from Waya’s neck so he can reach down and close his fingers around himself. Waya can feel the way the other boy tightens around him as he starts to stroke up over himself, the catch of relief in his throat as he sighs; it makes him grin, bright even though Isumi’s eyes are shut and there’s no one to see.

When Waya moves, Isumi follows his lead without being told. Waya can see the motion of Isumi’s hand, the angle of his wrist shifting to match the rhythm of Waya’s hips as he thrusts into the other boy; it’s intoxicating to watch, as if Waya is responsible for controlling the both of them instead of just himself. He ends up rocking back, pulling away from the possibility of Isumi’s mouth so he can get a better angle over his knees, can push one of Isumi’s legs up against his chest and better watch the way they shift and move together.

“You look good like that,” Isumi says suddenly. Waya startles at the sound, looks up in a rush of adrenaline, and Isumi is watching him, his eyes soft at the corners and his lips curved on a smile. His cheeks are flushed, too, color staining dark under his skin until Waya wants to reach out and touch it, to see if the pink would follow the motion of his fingers too.

“Hey,” he manages, struggling for an offended tone in contrast to the heat-tension in his throat and rippling up his spine. “Are you--saying I don’t always look good, Shin-chan?”

Isumi’s laugh is radiant, spreading to fill the entirety of the small space until it feels like the air is warmer, the mattress softer, Waya’s motions easier and smoother. “Of course not,” he offers, and it’s nearly a purr, it’s so slow and hot in his throat. “You always look good, senpai.”

“Jesus,” Waya blurts, and he has to tip himself forward again, he can’t sustain the self-control needed to stay away. Isumi’s mouth is soft against him, Isumi turning his head up into the kiss like he expects it before it comes, and when Waya moves faster Isumi’s hand speeds to match. It’s a frantic pace, too rushed to maintain for long, but Waya doesn’t need long; he can feel Isumi’s breathing coming fast at his mouth, can hear the sound of respect sliding off Isumi’s lips, and when Isumi arches and gasps under him it’s only further encouragement. He keeps moving, thrusting hard into Isumi like he’s pushing him through the jolting motions of orgasm, and by the time Isumi’s shuddering aftershocks have faded Waya is past the point of return, sliding towards satisfaction warm and huge and inevitable. Fingers come up to the back of his neck, thread into the strands of his hair, and Waya can hear the breath Isumi takes, can anticipate the sound of the word clinging to the other boy’s lips.

He doesn’t hear it. His orgasm hits first, crushing out into him like a wave in his blood, and if Isumi does speak Waya drowns him out with the groan of heat that pushes up his throat. His head is pressed to Isumi’s shoulder, his fingers pressing indentation into Isumi’s hip, and all he can hear is laughter, sweet and gentle and laced over with more affection than any sound should be able to carry.

It takes Waya a minute to recover. He’s still breathless by the time Isumi shifts under him and he thinks to move enough to roll sideways so they’re both crushed alongside each other on the mattress.

“Senpai,” Isumi says, drawling the word slow and overheated so Waya is pretty sure he’s being teased. “If you want to do this regularly we’ll need a bigger bed.”

“Stop complaining,” Waya insists, reaches out to push a hand against Isumi’s face. “I think Shin-chan suits you.”

Fingers close at his wrist, catch his hand away as Isumi turns sideways to smile up-close at Waya. Pressed together close as they are, they nearly fit on the bed in spite of the narrow borders of the sheets.

“You can call me whatever you want,” Isumi says, sincere and slow. “Yoshitaka.”

Waya can’t help grinning as he leans in to kiss hard at Isumi’s careful smile.


End file.
